One easily guesses that “A Wayside Flower” was the story of a young
girl--beautiful, but poor.
The rich hero’s fancy turned from his betrothed, the proud beauty, his
equal in wealth and station, to the simple village maiden.
With all the arts of love he wooed her for his own.
When the maiden, pure as snow, turned in grief and anger from the
proffer of the heart without the hand, he deceived her by a mock
marriage, swearing her to keep the secret.
In the distant village, where they spent their blissful honeymoon,
she somehow discovered through a letter he had dropped that he was
betrothed to another, and the wedding day set.
Undreaming of treachery, yet grieved for her hapless rival’s sorrow,
_Daisy_ reproached her young husband for his flirtations, and insisted
on his writing at once to the young girl to break off as gently as
possible the engagement he could never now fulfill.
Carelessly assenting, _Chester_ wrote the letter under _Daisy’s_ eyes,
sealed and addressed it, and pretended to have her post it to make
sure.
But he had cunningly slipped quite another sort of letter into the
envelope, and destroyed the one she had seen him write.
By and by came the time when he must leave her alone and return to his
home, lest his rich father disinherit him on finding out the truth of
his marriage to the village beauty.
He never returned.
For a while came letters filled with love and devotion, and always
inclosing money for the little wife.
Weary months slipped away, and brought the winter snows. The deserted
bride fell ill, and besought her husband to return to her side.
Blank silence fell. No more letters, no more money.
In the simple cottage where she boarded, the people began to hint at
desertion. The villainous son showed her loverlike attentions.
When _Daisy_ repulsed him in anger he showed her a letter from her
husband that broke her heart.
_Chester_ had written to the villain that the girl was not his wife. He
had deceived her by a mock marriage. Now he was weary of her, and would
see her no more. In fact, he was about to go abroad for years, and if
he, the villain, would marry the girl, he would pay him handsomely to
keep the whole thing quiet.
For the sake of her beauty and the bribe he was offered, this poor
apology for manhood was ready to make _Daisy_ an honest wife, but when
she refused him with biting scorn he made his weak mother thrust her
into the street, homeless and penniless in the winter’s snow.
_Daisy_ pawned her simple jewels and journeyed back to her deserted
home and widowed mother, praying only to die under the roof that had
sheltered her childhood and girlhood.
Then she heard that there was to be a grand wedding up at the hall that
night. Her false lover was about to wed the beautiful heiress, his
social equal, his chosen mate.
Poor little _Daisy_ had been plucked as carelessly as a wayside flower,
and thrown aside to die.
The poor old mother, half crazed by her daughter’s shame and despair,
cried bitterly:
“You have only yourself to blame, girl! I brought you up to shun rich
young men; I told you they had no use for poor girls but to wreck
their lives. You would not believe what I told you, you laughed at
my warnings, and fled with the villain that ruined you. Now you have
returned to drag out a wretched existence under the ban of scorn, while
he goes scot-free and weds another!”
The wretched _Daisy_ knew that it was all true. She shut herself into
her room, and brooded over her trouble till her brain went wild.
In the evening she came down to her mother, calm with the calmness of a
great despair.
“I have thought it all over, dear mother,” she said gently. “I did
wrong to come back to you in my trouble; because you warned me and
I would not listen. So I have no right to stay here and cloud your
life with my shame and sorrow. I am going away forever. Good-by, dear
mother. Say that you forgive me before I die!”
“What do you mean, child? Where are you going? What is this wild talk
of dying? Come back, _Daisy_; mother will forgive you,” cried the
poor mother, but _Daisy_ had fled through the door out into the cold
moonlight, shining on a world that was white with snow.
“I must follow and bring her back. I scolded her too harshly,” the
mother cried, snatching her bonnet and hastening after her child.
But her poor, rheumatic limbs could not keep pace with _Daisy’s_ flying
feet. She could not overtake her in time to prevent the tragedy.
The bridal cortège was moving out from the gates of the hall, and some
little children belonging to the tenant were throwing flowers in front
of the bridal carriage as it started toward the church where the
fashionable throng was waiting.
The clear moonlight and lamplight showed _Chester’s_ face plain as day,
as he sat by the side of the bride.
With a cry of reproach and despair that shrilled to heaven, _Daisy_
darted into the road, and flung herself under the horses’ feet.
But _Chester_, sitting there, pale and handsome, on his way to his
wedding, had seen that lovely face upraised to heaven as she darted
forward, had heard that terrible cry, and it pierced his false heart
like an arrow.
He gave an answering cry, and tearing open the carriage door, as the
vehicle swayed under the driver’s frantic efforts to throw the horses
back on their haunches, he sprang out and strove to tear _Daisy_ from
under their desperate hoofs.
The maddened animals dragged the reins from the driver’s hands, and
their steel-clad hoofs came down with a dull thud upon _Chester’s_ and
_Daisy’s_ bodies as they writhed on the ground.
It all passed more quickly than one could describe it, and almost
before the people in the next carriage knew that anything was happening
the ill-fated pair were drawn from their terrible position, crushed and
dying.
The frightened bride, reckless of her white gown and slippers, sprang
out into the snow.
“Oh, what has happened?” she cried, in wild alarm.
Then she saw _Chester_ prone upon the ground, with blood streaming from
a cut in his head down over his pallid face, while he held to his heart
the slight figure of an unconscious girl. The bride knew the pale face
instantly. It was the little cottage maiden, who had eloped with a
mysterious lover whose identity no one knew.
“Oh, _Chester_, what does this mean? What has happened to you?”
demanded the bride wildly, and turning his heavy eyes on her face, he
groaned:
“_Geraldine_, I have sacrificed my life to save this poor girl!”
“Why did you do it? What is she to you?” fiercely.
Like an arrow from a bow straight to her heart came his answer:
“The truth is cruel to you, _Geraldine_, but I feel that I am dying, so
I must make a full confession. I deceived this poor girl with a mock
marriage, then deserted her, returning to make you my lawful bride.
Realizing her despair, she has returned and chosen to die beneath my
horses’ feet. I have given my life vainly in the effort to save poor
little _Daisy_.”
_Geraldine_ realized that people were crowding round about her, that
the white face of the “best man” was close to hers, his arms shielding
her from falling to the ground, but she kept her eyes glued on that
pale, dying face, and her ears strained not to lose a sound of that
weak, dying voice.
“_Geraldine_,” he faltered on, “I meant to marry you for wealth and
position, but in my heart I loved _Daisy_ best. I was not worthy of
your love, but I pray you to forgive me, and to see that I am buried by
the side of the girl who was my wife in the sight of Heaven.”
He had thought little _Daisy_ dead, but suddenly her dim eyes flared
open and rested adoringly on his face. Her dulled hearing had caught
words that made her ineffably happy.
“Darling!” he muttered brokenly.
The best man stifled _Geraldine’s_ cry of rage with a daring hand upon
her lips.
“Forgive him, dear, you shall not miss him,” he whispered tenderly.
“Do you remember how we loved each other before that lovers’ quarrel,
when he came between? Now you know he was unworthy, let us begin again,
dear. Tell him you forgive and will do his will.”
_Geraldine_ trembled at the warm touch of his hand, and bending over
_Chester_, gave the promise he asked.
“I forgive you; you shall rest side by side,” she faltered, not a
minute too soon, for in another moment the lovers were both dead,
clasped in each other’s arms.
The first scene in “A Wayside Flower” showed the heroine singing a love
song at a window wreathed in morning glories, and as Bonair gazed in
wondering agitation, he saw that the singer’s face was that of little
Berry Vining!